“I gave it toyour father, a few years ago, thinking it would give him someclosure.” My aunt stopped to clear her throat. “Clearly, that was abad idea. Whatever’s contained inthat book drove your father into madness.”
“Then, whygive it to me?”
“Because Ihave a feeling the words your mother wrote weren’t meant for him.They were meant for you. If you can read it and, I dunno, get someanswers or closure or… something. Maybe you can get over whateverhappened to you and come back to us. Come back to your life.Here.” Her emphasis on the last word caught myattention.
“Did you readthis?”
Mary held herchin high. “I read a little. I saw enough to put some piecestogether. I don’t believe it, but it’s hard to argue otherwise.” Iopened my mouth to try to explain, but she cut me off. “Nope. Idon’t want to hear it. I don’t want to know. You disappeared, went…some place far away. I get that.What I want from you is something else entirely.”
I shrugged andshook my head. “What?”
“Read yourmother’s journal,” she started, “If you don’t find the answers youneed then promise to stop. Leave whatever happened to you behind,stop looking, stop wanting whatever it is you think you want. Stayhere, fix the house, run the bakery, and raise that baby. Whetheror not that life includes John is up to you.” She paused, her wordsslowly sinking in. “Can you do that?”
I rubbed mythumb over the sun and moon on the cover, admiring that my mother’shands had put the symbols there. My mom, the time traveler. The magical woman from the past. Iheld the edge to my nose and inhaled deeply, surprised to find thatthe slightest hint of her perfume still held onto the pages, thescent brought tears to my eyes. This was my last hope. If thesecret to going back to Henry even existed, it had to be in thatjournal. My father may have found it, but maybe he didn’t know orunderstand it properly, the way I would.
“Yes,” I toldAunt Mary, agreeing because there was a high chance I would neverhave to uphold my end of the bargain. I could be on my way back toHenry any day and that thought set fire to something inside of me.I held up the journal in admiration and awe. “I can do that.”
ChapterFive
After John got back with some breakfast sandwiches, Iwolfed mine down and told him my pain meds were making me drowsy,so I excused myself to go upstairs. I felt horrible for lying, Iwas actually trying to cut down on the pain meds for fear of theeffect they’d have on the baby, but I had to get away. The call ofMom’s journal rang like an echo in my head and it was all I couldthink about. The answer I needed. The secret to time travel. Myticket back to Henry.
It could bewaiting within those very pages.
I rested myback against the headboard, bent my knees, and propped the journalopen on my thighs before taking a deep breath and carefully openingthe pages. The image of Mom’s handwriting struck me hard and Ifought not to cry. I ran my fingertips over the pen scrawl, feelingthe indent from the pressure put on the pen, imagining her writingthe words. Surprisingly, her first entry wasn’t long before mybirth.
Jan.7th 1990
Martha wasright. Oh, Lord, was she ever right. I can hear her now, cursing myname, probably regretting the years she spent raising me. All thosetimes I refused to heed her warnings about time, I never understoodthe repercussions until now. But, here I am, lost and stranded inthe future, with no way back. I thank the gods that time saw fit tokeep me home in Newfoundland, but it is a Newfoundland I do notknow.
I’ve foundrefuge in the church, a place that, thankfully, still existsin this time. Ithas been three months since I washed ashore and was found by Mr.Abbott, the local minister who leads the church. I pretended tohave no memory of who I am or where I came from. They made me speakto law officials called policemen, and they’ve failed at tracking down myorigin, of course.
So, I’vebeen left here to work for the church that gives me lodging andI’ve befriended the museum curator, a person who collectsinformation and artifacts from our land’s history. I figure it thebest place to find my way home.
Only timeshall tell.
ConstanceCobham
I flipped tothe next entry as I digested the words I’d just read. Mom foundherself lost in time roughly a year before I was born. Which meant,she’d met my father not long after she arrived. The next fewentries were much the same as the first; Mom documenting everyattempt she made at getting back home, and how every single onefailed.
She listed allthe different things she tried, relics she’d found through themuseum, but nothing that was of any use. Nothing that gave me theanswer. I could tell, after the fourth entry, how frustrated shewas getting. Some words were blurred from drops of water that hadsoaked in and bled the ink, but I quickly realized they were mostlikely tears. How scared she must have been, lost in a future she couldn’t comprehend.
For me, goingback in time was scary, but it was a time I knew, a place I couldeasily digest from reading books, growing up here and knowing someof the histories of Newfoundland.I saw things and knew what they were. But Mom… she would have hadno idea how to process things like cars, and cities, andtechnology.
Feb.14th, 1990
It has beenfour months and eight days since I washed ashore in this futureNewfoundland. I thought I would have found a way back by now, butI’m beginning to think my efforts are wasted. Everything fails, andnothing seems to bring me closer to an answer.
But today Imet a man. A handsome and kind man named Arthur Sheppard. Itappears that this day is what they call Valentine’s, a time of yearpeople celebrate their love for one another. He ventured into themuseum gift shop in search of a
